Black Orchid the Unknown
by Mikel Midnight
Summary: A mystery woman and a teenage girl ... DC's Black Orchid amalgamated with Marvel's Omega the Unknown.
1. Everything in the World

You won't have much time.

I just have to make sure she's safe.

And then you'll be ready?

Yes.

**BLACK ORCHID THE UNKNOWN #1: "Everything in the World"**

She woke gently, to the soft feel of a hand on her forehead. It took her  
eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light from the hallway, coming through  
her bedroom door. "Mom?"

She could just make out the smile. "You were muttering in your sleep. Is  
everything ok, hon?"

Suzy-Michelle Starrling rubbed her eyes sleepily. "Just a weird dream, I  
guess. I was ... I don't remember what it was about."

Her mother leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Ok babe, go back to sleep.  
Remember we have to get up early, we've got a lot to do tomorrow."

Suzy-Michelle felt the shift in the bed as her mother stood up. "Mom?" she  
called out quietly. "Do we have to move? I like living up here in the  
mountains with just you and Dad."

The older woman stood silhouetted in the doorway, the light of the hall  
against her back. "You know we have to move because of your father's work,  
hon. You'll like California, and it'll do you good to mix with some other  
kids your own age."

Suzy-Michelle gave an exasperated grunt, and pulled the covers back over her  
head theatrically, curling up. Her mother sighed. "I'll wake you up at  
six, Suzy-Michelle. At least try to look forward to this a little, ok?"  
The lump under the covers remained silent, so the woman closed the door  
gently and the room returned to darkness.

It seemed like no time had elapsed when the ceiling light was switched on.  
"Time to get ready, sleepyhead." Suzy-Michelle scrupulously avoided giving  
the impression of being awake, even trying to remain immobile when her  
mother whipped the blanket off her, though she squinted as the light hit her  
closed eyes. "C'mon sleepyhead," she heard, "Are you going to be a brat  
about this, or are you going to be helpful? Should I have your dad come in  
to carry you bodily into the shower?"

The young girl opened her eyes and glared, "No no no, I'll be good." She  
shifted her position so she was seated on the edge of her bed, pushed the  
tangle of blonde hair out of her face and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.  
"Are we having breakfast?" she asked hopefully.

Her mother shook her head, "We'll grab something on the way, We'll stop at  
an IHOP, all right? You can have all the pancakes you can eat."

Suzy-Michelle nodded, "Okay I guess," and grabbed a handful of clothes she  
had set aside the previous morning and plodded into the bathroom. She came  
out a half-hour later, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and carrying her pajamas  
and damp towel and an armful of bathroom miscellany which she dumped on her  
bed. Her mom had already stripped it to the bare mattress, and folded the  
sheets. The girl sealed her bathroom items into a large plastic baggie  
which she had left out the night before, and stuffed the sheets and the  
other cloth items into a big yellow laundry bag. The baggie went into a  
suitcase which she pushed closed with a grunt and zipped shut. She ran her  
hands down her hair, squeezing out the last few drops of wetness she could  
and letting the drops fall to the floor, wiping her hands dry on the  
mattress. She finally tied her hair back into a ponytail and picked up the  
suitcase and laundry bag and went downstairs.

She followed the scraping sound of sealing tape into the living room, where  
her father was putting the finishing touches on some large boxes. She  
dropped her bags and walked over to give him a tight hug around his waist.  
He looked down, "Good morning sweetie," and returned the hug with a smile.  
She peered up into his face, narrow and professorial looking with his thick  
glasses but still quite handsome and looking as young as he was the day he  
was married. "Good morning Dad. Anything I can help with?"

Her father's eyes roamed around the room. "I think we've got everything  
pretty much under control. Why don't you carry your bags out to the car?  
Then you can come back and help me bring out the last few boxes."

She nodded and lifted her bags again with a grunt, carrying them outside.  
She squinted in the sunlight and walked around to the back of the trailer,  
where her mother was rearranging boxes. "Mom! Where do you want these?"  
she called out.

Her mother turned around and hopped out of the trailer. The sunlight  
complemented the fine gold of the older woman's hair, making it glow.  
Suzy-Michelle always felt gangly and intimidated by her mother's glamorous  
looks. She had aged well, like her father, and could have easily passed for  
twenty. The young girl hadn't yet reached the point where she could see her  
parent's well-preserved looks as providing hope for her own future. "Good  
morning sweetie," she said, and hugged her daughter. "Throw the laundry bag  
in the back, it's pretty full. We'll put the suitcase in the back seat of  
the car so we can get at it during the trip."

Suzy-Michelle passed the laundry bag up, and wandered back in the house.  
She and her father carried out the last of the boxes, passing them up to her  
mother to arrange. When the bulk of the work was done, her father turned to  
her. "Want to do a last check, sweetie?" She nodded quickly, and ran back  
inside the house.

Her eyes drank in the gleaming white interior. Stripped of the personal  
touches, the streamlined furniture, most of it built-in, looked oddly  
futuristic and antiseptic. She ran upstairs and went from room to room,  
opening shelves and drawers, and brushing her hands across every surface,  
trying to commit them to memory for one last time. With a final look, she  
closed the door, turning around to greet her parents, in the same position  
she'd left them. Her father smiled at her, "Ready? I know you'll miss the  
house."

She sighed, "I'd much rather just stay here ... yeah." She looked a bit  
sullen again as the three of them piled into the station wagon. She  
listened to the crunchy sound of the tires rolling along the small rocks in  
the driveway path, one more thing she must commit to memory. She waved to  
the great domed house as they drive off.

The car threaded its way through the mountains for hours. Her father playing  
with the radio on occasion, flitting through channels. She ground her teeth  
at the constant static and interrupted songs, but knew the rules: the  
driver gets to be in charge of the radio. Finally he settled on a jazz  
station and drove for a bit. A solo started and he glanced back towards  
her. "Ok Suzy-Michelle, who's this?"

She smiled and sat forward, tilting her head to listen. The tune was  
old-fashioned to her ears, but plainly be-bop in style. The recording was  
slightly scratchy. The soloist was playing an alto saxophone in an  
accelerated, quicksilvery style. She felt it whirring through her head.  
She smirked a little. "Oh duh, Charlie Parker. That's too easy Dad, give  
me a hard one next time!"

Her father grinned back at her. Suzy-Michelle's eyes widened, and she  
pointed out the front windshield, "Dad, look out, there's a ... "

He noticed the man in the middle of the road at the last moment, and tried  
to swerve to avoid him. He cut to the left, but went into a spin.  
Suzy-Michelle screamed as the car went over the side of the roadway. She  
felt hyperaware as it bumped down the side of the cliff, thinking that it  
was just like watching it in a movie. Even the sound of the crash when they  
hit the bottom seemed distant.

She didn't remember afterwards when she realised that the gas tank had  
ruptured, or how she managed to crawl out of the car. She was in too much  
shock to feel pain from the collision or the burns, and the part of her  
brain that was conscious understood that. She choked on bile and tears when  
she saw the explosion which decapitated her mother.

The head rolled in front of her, Suzy-Michelle barely managed to choke out,  
"Mom?" Wires trailed from the detached neck. Her mother spoke haltingly,  
"I ... I love you sweetheart ... never for ... never forget that ... don't  
let the project ... interrupt program 1777 consciousness program abort  
initiating emergency security override warning irreparable bodily impairment  
warning warning security compromise initiate self-destruct cycle."

Then, all Suzy-Michelle saw was red.

Then, all Suzy-Michelle saw was black.

* * *

The man in white smiled down at his new charge. "So, you're awake. The  
nurse told me you were stirring. Good morning."

Suzy-Michelle looked around, trying to place herself. A hospital room?  
Yes. "Uh." Her head hurt.

A label pinned to his chest read Dr. Thomas Barrow. "Can you tell me your  
name?"

"Uh. Suzy-Michelle Starrling. Um. Where am I?"

Dr. Barrow adjusted his spectacles. "You're in Elmond City Hospital. Do  
you know where that is?"

Suzy-Michelle tried to think. "Elmond's by the coast isn't it? Central  
California? Uhhh I'm supposed to be in San Francisco ... " She tried to  
get up, but her muscles weren't cooperating.

Dr. Barrow put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her down with a touch as  
light as a feather. "I don't think you're going anywhere now, young lady.  
You're going to get some rest. I'll leave the TV remote with you, and  
tomorrow we can talk about getting you some books if you like. Is there  
anyone you'd like us to contact?"

She shook her head, "Just my parents ... my parents are dead." She felt the  
blackness crowding her vision again, and she surrendered to it.

* * *

She awoke in the dark, to a small sound. "Mom?" she whispered. Had she  
been muttering in her sleep again?

Her mother wasn't there. She realised where she was when the window  
shattered inwards. She screamed, fear and shock and memory crashing in on  
her mind all at once. "You ... you're the man in the road."

The figure strode towards her purposefully. He was dressed in the same  
loose-fitting, tattered garments she recalled from that quick image of him  
in the dark, illuminated by her father's headlights, but she saw now that  
his face wasn't a man's at all, but rather a metallic facsimile.

Its voice sounded like it came across old telephone wires. "Target  
located. Initiating termination sequence." A metallic hand reached over,  
grabbing a handful of her blonde hair. She was too startled even to scream.  
The figure raised its hand.

It did not lower it. Suzy-Michelle's eyes took in a woman's bare hand on  
the figure's forearm. The figure stood immobilised for what seemed like  
several seconds, before releasing its grip on her hair and turning to face  
the new figure.

Suzy-Michelle shook her head, trying to clear it, watching the new arrival.  
She was a tall woman, her body lean and well-muscled beneath a midnight blue  
bodysuit. Maroon boots ended mid-thigh, with matching wristbands and  
military-style stripes down the sides of the uniform. Concealing her  
identity was a deep violet mask and hood, the front of which was decorated  
with a complex florid design in black. The design repeated itself on her  
billowing cape, which attached to her wristbands to give the image of a  
great orchid.

The strangely attired woman crouched down, as if preparing herself for  
battle. The metallic figure moved towards her swiftly in an attack, and she  
countered just as swiftly. Suzy-Michelle's eyes could barely track the pair  
as they whirled in combat. But the metal man was just a bit stronger, or a  
bit faster, and the woman found herself on her knees. "Termination sequence  
resumed," the metallic voice announced.

Suzy-Michelle reached out to try to stop him ... she knew she had to do  
something, anything. She screamed as twin beams of fire leapt from her eyes  
and pierced the metal shell of its torso. The figure froze again and turned  
around slowly to face her. Its voice was static. "Late ... too late," it  
emitted, and went to move towards her again. She could barely see through  
the pain in her eyes.

"No, too late for you," said a woman's whisper. Powerful hands reached  
inside the ruptured body, pulling out its mechanical innards. Suzy-Michelle  
felt the woman's arms embrace her, and when the pain vanished from her eyes,  
she saw the woman holding a small silver object in front of the girl's face,  
which whirred softly. "Better now?" the woman whispered.

Suzy-Michelle nodded, dumbly. The woman smiled at her, and pressed her  
finger to the girl's lips. "Our secret," she whispered. She whirled around  
and scooped up the remains of the metal assassin, and stepped out the  
hospital window to vanish into the darkness.

"Good lord," said Dr. Barrow as he burst through the door, surveying the  
wreckage of the hospital room. "Susan, how did you do all this? Why ... "

"Not Susan," she interrupted him. "Suzy-Michelle."

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	2. Dagger of the Mind

Dr. Barrow removed his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose to relieve the stress. "So you didn't find anything?"

The counselor leaned back in his chair, unconsciously running a hand over his bald head. "I'm not sure what you would expect me to 'find' ... mental illness isn't a scavenger hunt or a seek-and-find."

The doctor put his glasses back on and glared. "Oh, thank you. Now can you tell me something useful?"

The counselor shrugged, "Is she a danger to herself or others? Not in my estimation."

The doctor sounded exasperated. "And when she trashed her room?"

The counselor shrugged again. "I didn't say she wasn't without problems. She's been under considerable stresses, losing both her parents. I'd recommend keeping an eye on her. But I don't believe she is likely to cause herself physical harm or cause physical harm to someone else."

Dr. Barrow was starting to find his mannerisms irritating. "Do you believe her parents are actually dead? The police still have not found any bodies at the crash site."

"As I said, she doesn't to be suffering from more stresses than one would expect of a child in her circumstances. She seems to believe they're dead, and she does not appear to me to be delusional. But, psychology is an inexact science," the counselor said with a smirk, "unlike medicine. I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you there. I realise that you're in an untenable position regarding her funding."

The doctor nodded, "The board is starting to complain. We can't support her here indefinitely. And if we can't find any relatives to take her in ... "

The counselor reached into his jacket pocket and took out a card. "I know some good social workers at the Federal Welfare Center. Give them a call if need be."

* * *

The flying woman closed her eyes, feeling the night wind against her face. It had taken her considerable time to disassemble the robot, and she didn't know how many would come to take its place. And the dangers ahead, she feared, would be worse yet.

She landed on the roof of the hospital. In time the dangers would come in a different form, and she would need different strategies. A mask ... she needed a mask.

* * *

The woman placed the cup of hot chocolate on the table in front of the Suzy-Michelle. She appeared to be in her early twenties, attractive but with a hard edge. Her knifelike features were accentuated by her short spiked hair, and the leather jacket she wore like armor.

Her partner sat on the edge of the table and folded his arms. He seemed to be the same age but there was something boyish about his face. His hair was red and his face sprinkled with freckles. He had an overly cheerful, ingratiating manner that contrasted with the blonde woman's directness. "Susan? We can't help you if you won't talk to us."

She glared at him, "Not Susan. Suzy-Michelle." She reached for the cup and curled around it in the big easy chair she had been slumped in.

The woman nodded slowly, consulting a small file folder. "That's right," she said, and laid the file flat on the table, tilting it slightly so her partner could see it, "Suzy-Michelle Starrling. Would you like to talk to us about the accident, Suzy-Michelle?"

Suzy-Michelle shook her head, curling her hands around the cup as she sipped, to warm them against the chill in the air-conditioned room. The blonde woman spoke quietly, "You know, we think your parents may still be alive. There were no bodies found in the crash. Would you like to tell us about the crash? Anything we learn could be helpful ... maybe it would even help us find your parents."

Suzy-Michelle looked up and glared at her, a flash of sudden anger in her clear blue eyes, "I told them at the hospital more than once, my parents are dead. It doesn't matter what you say."

The man sighed a little, looking like he didn't want to be there. As if I do, Suzy-Michelle thought. "Yes, well, the hospital. That's another thing. You can't stay there indefinitely, Suzy-Michelle. That's why we came here to talk to you. You've said that you don't have any relatives to contact, so we're going to have to find someone to take you in."

Suzy-Michelle sat up quickly. "Why can't I stay there? I, um, I know people there. I mean, people know where to find me. I'm not any trouble."

The woman peered at her, tilting her spiked head to the side in a curious motion. "Who knows where to find you?"

Suzy-Michelle looked nervous, "Just ... people. Nobody, I guess, really."

The woman looked up at her partner, who shrugged. She made a steeple with her fingers and rested her chin on it. "If you've made friends with any of the nurses there, or any of the other kids in your unit, that's fine. We'll make sure they know how to contact you."

Suzy-Michelle muttered, "It's not the same. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters."

The man folded his arms. "We've found a very nice older couple, Silas and Marthe Hudson, who have agreed to take you in. They've looked after a lot of kids your age, I think you'll get along with them real well."

"Fine," Suzy-Michelle said sullenly. It sounds awful, she thought, but what choice did she have? She looked out the window, wondering where the woman who rescued her was. Would she ever see her again, especially now?

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	3. A Room of One's Own

"MAY-er Street and DE-Zuniga," the bus conductor's voice came over the speakerphone, stretching the first syllable of each name out, sing-song fashion. "Connections to the FORty-eight, FIFty-eight, and Fifty-eight EXpress." He turned off the intercom switch and turned to Suzy-Michelle. "Here's your stop, miss."

Suzy-Michelle stammered a little, "oh ... oh, thank you." The door hissed open, and she stood for a minute, confused. "Um, my bags ... ?"

The conductor smiled. "Just come with me," and she followed him outside to the street. He reached around and plucked the jangling collection of keys from his hip, immediately choosing the right one and unlocking the baggage hatch on the side of the bus.

"That one, the big blue one," she pointed. "And there's another one ... a little grey carrying-case ... yeah." He slid them out and set them on the cub. "Here you go," he smiled at her. "Have a good time," he said encouragingly.

She thanked him, wondering if there was something else she was supposed to do, and he climbed back aboard and the bus grumbled back to life, heading back down the street, leaving her alone.

She looked at the small piece of paper in her hand. 18020 N.W. Chicag. What sort of a name was 'Chicag'? It sounded absurd to her, like calling a street 'New Yor' or 'Pittsbur'. She picked up her bags and headed down the suburban streets.

A block later, she had to set the blue suitcase down. Most of her stuff had been destroyed when the car exploded. The rest she had been able to cram into the pair of suitcases, along with some stuff of her folks', but she had never packed intending to carry all of it at once. She switched arms, hoisted the large suitcase over her back, which bent her a little at the waist, and picked up the carrying case with her other hand.

She went on like that block by block. Stop, change hands, walk until the pain in her arm got too great, stop, change hands. The houses around her looked to have been built in the 60's. They were architecturally bland and rather uniform, with only small variations in layout, colored trim or ornamentation to lend individuality. The lawns were neatly clipped. She wondered why the streets were so empty. It took her a while to realise that it was the middle of the day in a workweek. Parents would be at work, their kids in school. Her family had never worked on that sort of schedule. She started to play a game with herself, seeing how many repetitions of the exact same house she could find. She was spotting five different models when she came to a street which looked different from the others.

She looked up and down the block. It didn't make any sense to her. Every house on the block looked older and run-down, in need of paint or basic repair. The lawns were brown and spotted with weeds. She tried to look down into the next block but couldn't make out whether this street divided to sections or whether this block was some sort of isolated area of poverty. She checked the street name: 'Chicago.' Her face squinched up, and she looked closer at the paper she carried. She noticed for the first time that the left-hand side of the note had a strip of tape on it. Obviously someone had written 'Chicago' and the little 'o' had rubbed off the tape.

She looked both directions, trying to track house numbers, wondering if she could possibly turn around and go the other way. She briefly fantasized about just canvassing the houses of the nicer streets, wondering if anyone could use an au pair or something, but headed to the right as the numbers seemed to increase.

The house had a second story, which set is aside from the others. It had what appeared to be the standard waist-high stone wall along it's property line, separating its lawn from its neighbors on either side, but it added a white picket fence in front. Or it had been white, now the paint was grey and peeling. It rocked forward and back slightly when she rested her hand on it. The house had the same dingy look, cracked pavement on the walkway leading up to concrete steps, also cracked, which led to the front porch. Leaning against the side of the house was an old bicycle frame with no tires. The porch steps had been painted bright red, though it was worn off in spots. A blur of movement around the side of the house caught her eye when she opened the rusty gate which squeaked. She maneuvered her bags through and set them down. "Here kitty," she called for a few seconds, but it was gone. She sighed, and hefted the luggage down the walkway. As she dragged them up the steps she noticed two hooks, screwed in to the porch ceiling. Obviously there had been a porch swing here at one time. She rang the doorbell.

Waiting nervously, she noticed something else: to the left of the door, a statuette of a horse. In contrast to its surroundings, it was perfectly clean, gleaming white.

The screen door opened, and an man peered down at her. "Suzy?" he inquired. He was thin, but not desiccated. He looked like he had probably been used to physical labor in his life. He was wearing loose grey slacks, and a white t-shirt with a red and white striped shirt hanging open. His voice had a slight midwest flatness to it.

"Suzy-Michelle," she corrected him. He smiled. "Carry your bags right in here, girl. You're a little late."

"Um, I didn't know the way." Her eyes took in the interior of the house. The walls looked like they had been canary yellow at one point. And there were things piled everywhere. She had never seen so much clutter. Neatly arranged stacks of magazines as high as her waist. She peered at the covers of some of the ones on top. Mail order catalogs? She gave up trying to maneuver her bags past the maze of piles, and just left them by the door as she followed the man, whose name she remembered was Silas Hudson, through the house. The soles of her shoes stuck slightly to the carpet as she stepped. She looked down, mystified, at the carpeting. Around her, very bit of wallspace was covered in shelves, all of which were filled with geegaws and souvenir plates and small statuettes. Her eyes fell on a neatly arranged pile of plastic six-pack rings at her elbow. Didn't these people throw anything out?

"Hello Suzy-Michelle," said a female voice, distracting her from her inventory. She looked up and saw a small, round woman with white hair pulled back into a bun. She spoke with a very slight accent. Suzy-Michelle couldn't place it. Hungarian, maybe? "Please to meet you," she said, "My name's Marthe. You're probably tired. Silas, why don't you show the girl to her room? We'll have dinner ready in a moment."

The old man sighed, "Right this way, Suzy-Michelle," he said, wending past her. She turned around and followed him, noticing that as he headed upstairs he hadn't made a move to grab either of her bags. Her arms still hurt from the trip; she just picked up the grey carrying case and left the other one by the front door. I'll get it later, she thought.

Silas pointed. "First door on the left. Bathroom's on the right. Our bedroom's down at the end of the hallway."

She nodded, "Thanks," and wandered into the room. It was empty, and looked relatively clean, though everything had the same dingy, worn look as the rest of the house. There was a twin bed in the center, with a nightstand and stand-alone wardrobe, both cheap pressboard. There was a thick quilt on the bed, faded pink. In the far corner was a small grate. A fireplace? She thought. Where's the flue? She realised that it appeared to be a gas or electric heater, just modeled into the shape of a fireplace. Opposite the door was a large window, with a ledge big enough to sit in. She walked to the window and looked out at the evening sky. The light was almost gone.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. School Of Thought

Suzy-Michelle looked sullenly between Silas Hudson and the school principal, Mr. Anderson, as they discussed her placement in class. "It's a little awkward because we don't have her academic records," Mr. Anderson complained.

Silas drawled, "Well I'm sure we'll be able to put something together, sir. We're still looking for her records, but she's had considerable home schooling, and I'm sure she'll do fine."

Talk about me as if I'm not here, why don't you, Suzy-Michelle thought. They had been going on like that for ten minutes at least. She hated Silas Hudson at that moment.

Mr. Anderson smiled condescendingly at Suzy-Michelle, the first time he had acknowledged her presence. "I think we have an opening in Mr. Beal's class," he told her, looking through a sheaf of papers in her hands. "Come along this way."

The girl glanced at Silas, who nodded encouragingly, "We're just a short walk from the school, Suzy-Michelle. We'll see you afterwards." She sighed, and followed the principal. Silas gave her a little wave which she thought a horribly sentimental gesture.

Mr. Anderson stopped in the hall, opened the door to a classroom, and Suzy-Michelle walked through, peering around anxiously. She saw an open desk close to the wall and made her way through the isle to sit down on it. "Fantastinite," the instructor was saying. "Hypertime." Suzy-Michelle realised that the class was in the middle of a spelling test. What was she supposed to do?

Mr. Anderson walked to the front of the class and silently handed him the sheaf of papers. The man, she guessed he was Mr. Beal, nodded to the principal. He had curly reddish-brown hair and a weak chin. "Amalgamation," he said.

He continued to recite words as Suzy-Michelle sat there feeling awkward. "Please pass your papers to the front," he suddenly announced. A moment later she felt a tap on her left shoulder and turned around to see a boy handing her a pile of tests, which she handed to the student in front of her. "Class, please welcome our new student, Suzy-Michelle Starrling." Beal's eyes roamed the room. "Nedley, would you please show Miss Starrling around?"

Suzy-Michelle turned around again, to see her tour guide, and a lean girl with brown hair, wearing a baseball cap and jersey, sauntered down the isle. "Hiya," she said.

Suzy-Michelle smiled a little. "Hi."

Mr. Beal walked over to Suzy-Michelle, his voice a little irritated. "What do you do if you come in late during a test? You start taking it." She sensed he was going to regale her more, but the bell rang and the class started to get up around them. Beal sighed, "I'll see you tomorrow, Starrling."

Suzy-Michelle pictured herself kicking back in her chair, and saying casually, "I didn't study for it," in a tone that would utterly dismiss him and make the whole class laugh. But then her tour guide swung her head around. "Come on," she said, and Suzy-Michelle followed.

They ran into a crowd. The other kids from the class circled around Suzy-Michelle, quizzing her. What's your name? Where are you from? Where did you go to school before this? Suzy-Michelle stammered out her answers, trying to disappear into the wall behind her. Suddenly she felt a hand on hers, pulling her away. It was her tour guide. "No time to waste, Suzy-Michelle, come on." The kids just watched her go.

"You lucked out," the girl said. "It's lunchtime next. My name's Diane."

"Suzy-Michelle Starrling. Um, but I guess you knew that. Pleased to meet you, Diane Nedly." She extended a hand.

Diane laughed. "My last name's not Nedly. That's John. I just thought I should give you the tour. I'll introduce you to John Nedly later."

"Oh, um, ok," the other girl said, already confused. She followed Diane to the cafeteria where the pair of them grabbed a set of trays. Diane pointed out the items on the menu. "Avoid the chicken fried steak, it has hair in it. The sloppy joe's just disgusting. The stir-fry is your best bet, it's hard to mess up a stir-fry. The peanut butter pie I like for dessert."

Suzy-Michelle stocked her plate obediently, a little nauseated by the smells of the place. "Hey, there he is," Diane said. She led Suzy-Michelle to a table where a plump boy with glasses was sitting alone, reading a book. Suzy-Michelle spied the title: War & Peace. She smiled to herself. "Hey John," Diane said, "sorry to make off with your date."

John barely looked up from his book. "Whatever, Diane."

The two girls sat down opposite him. "Don't mind him, Suzy-Michelle, he's just a pervert. Watch out for any girl named Enid, though."

Suzy-Michelle blinked, "Enid? Who's she?"

Diane shook her head, "She's not a 'she'. Enid's what they call any girl around here they want to pick on. It's not worth your while to get involved, that's all."

John peered up from his book and glared at Diane, and sighed.

"Let me see your schedule," Diane said. When they finished eating "Ok, You got Ms. Brooks next for math, that's pretty good. What did you choose for sixth hour? You know you could have whatever you wanted?"

Suzy-Michelle looked embarrassed. "I didn't really know ... I just signed up for study hall."

Diane grinned, "Study hall, jeez. I bet you read almost as much as John does."

Suzy-Michelle flushed.

After her math class, she consulted her course schedule to track down her study hall. She guessed the room numbers must make sense on an overhead map, because they certainly didn't when you were walking down the hallways. Finally she found what appeared to be the right door and walked in.

It was quiet, and she felt every pair of eyes in the room turn up to look at her as she walked in. The teacher's desk was against the wall by the door. "Yes, may I help you?"

She stammered, unsure, holding the permission slip in front of her, assuming he's understand what it was.

He looked at her, "I don't think you're supposed to be here."

She nodded silently and turned around to leave, the student's voices following her as she exited the room. "Enid." "Enid." "Enid."

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
